


Still Feel the Same Around You

by popfly



Series: FOUR [Deluxe]/Hockey RPF: OTP [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 01:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2904872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly/pseuds/popfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When I can hardly walk and my hair is falling out</i>
  <br/>
  <i>we'll still stay out to morning</i>
  <br/>
  <i>we'll throw the after-party</i>
  <br/>
  <i>oh yeah, oh yeah</i>
  <br/>
  <i>I won't act my age, no I</i>
  <br/>
  <i>won't act my age, no I'll</i>
  <br/>
  <i>still feel the same around you</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Feel the Same Around You

**Author's Note:**

> Basically a love letter to Tyler Seguin's bros.
> 
> Thanks to Jes and Lacey for the read throughs!

When you’re 19, you’ve just won a Stanley Cup and hangovers are still a fallacy, you get to thinking you’re invincible.

“Freddy,” Tyler crows, tripping through the door of the apartment and nearly falling over Marshall, snuffling excitedly around his knees. “I fucking love this city.”

Freddy is sprawled on the couch in his dumb hipster glasses with an actual fucking book in his hands, because he’s a weirdo who would rather stay at home and read on a night when he could be partying with his bro that just won the best fucking trophy in sports. Tyler feels a swell of affection and half shuffles, half stumbles across the hardwood floor, socked feet slipping and making him drop onto Freddy’s stomach harder than he’d planned it.

“Christ, you smell like a distillery,” Freddy wheezes, shoving at Tyler until he’s spread out more comfortably, weight firmly distributed onto his hip, shoved between Freddy and the back of the couch.

“Freddy,” Tyler says, and then giggles into Freddy’s shoulder. His sweater is itchy. Tyler’s playoff beard is itchy. Marshall jumps onto the end of the couch and the fur on his belly is itchy on Tyler’s calves. “Freddy.”

“Yeah, drunky?”

Tyler giggles again, and looks up. “You’re the best.”

Freddy smiles, the same sweet crooked one he’s had since they were young, and ruffles Tyler’s hair.

← →

When you’re 21, racking up points in an international league, and banging European hotties on the regular, you get to thinking you’re pretty fucking badass.

“Brownie,” Tyler says, the FaceTime window finally loading on his phone. Brownie is already shaking his head, but his smile is definitely fond.

“How’s my wifey doing up in the snowy Alps?”

Tyler flops back onto his bed, holding his phone up over his face. He’ll have to switch positions before his arm gets too tired and he breaks his nose - there have been a few close calls with fat lips already, talking to his sisters and laughing so hard his fingers slipped. But for now, he’s comfortable, or at least as comfortable as he can be thousands of miles from home on a strange, lumpy mattress.

“I’m good. Kicking ass, scoring goals, you know. The usual.”

“Uh huh. Committing adultery.” Brownie pouts, and Tyler laughs, holding the phone tighter.

“Yeah, but cheating’s okay if it’s with a ten, right? And Jesus, dude, the girls over here. You’d need a whole new scale.”

“There has to be a conversion rate online somewhere. North American hotness to European hotness.” Brownie pinches his chin, makes an exaggerated thinking face, and Tyler is hit with a wave of homesickness so strong it’s almost nauseating. Like a hangover, except his are still pretty mild thankfully. Bless his youth.

“Kaner looked one up the other day, it doesn’t exist. You should patent that.”

“Maybe I will. You guys still getting along?”

Tyler nods, happily. He could’ve been doing anything during the lockout. Training in Toronto with his Biosteel crew, hanging out in Brampton with his family, drinking in Boston. But playing is his priority, and he’s glad he came to Biel. Having Kaner around makes it way easier. He’s glad to have him, both on the ice and off, even if he did drag his mom along with him. “He’s a blast, for sure. And bonus, his mom does our laundry.”

“Man, your life, Seggy. Spoiled by someone else’s mom in a foreign country.”

“I know, right.” It’s pretty awesome to be him. “Hey, thanks for calling man. It’s great over here, but I do get homesick.”

Brownie’s face goes soft, his smile crooked and affectionate. “Of course I’m going to call, Ty. You’re my wifey.”

“Best husband ever,” Tyler says, and then launches into a story about the absolutely stacked blonde that shot Kaner down the night before.

← →

When you’re 21, dumped by the team you thought you’d spend your career with, and have to move your life across the country at a moment’s notice, you get to feeling pretty lost.

Dallas is great, he’s not lying when he repeats some version of that sentiment over and over to various reporters and front office people and friends on the phone. It really is. He’s only been out one night since he got in, but the clubs were all amazing. They did VIP in one place the first Saturday, and literally every girl he laid his eyes on was a smoke show. The dudes weren’t too bad either. And since Tyler has finally started letting himself look at dudes in public, he’s making sure to look his fill.

The team is great, too. He can see them being friends. Good friends, even. The Benns have taken Tyler into their care, since they live in the building. They’re hilarious - total dorks, and totally comfortable with it. Watching them interact is a lot like watching Tyler’s sisters interact, except with more bodily functions on display. They have their own language; they’re so in synch they’re like two halves of the same whole. Tyler has been missing that feeling desperately, so it’s no surprise that he gloms onto them and makes himself the third Musketeer. They don’t seem to mind, either.

He was worried, moving away from Boston, that he wouldn’t see anyone anymore. But so many of his friends want to visit in Dallas. Each time someone texts him flight details his heart unclenches a bit, and he relaxes into his new city, his new life, a little more. He maybe cries on Brandon, just a tear or two, when he picks him up at DFW for the first time.

“Whoa,” Brandon says, but he stays leaned over the center console of Tyler’s car with his arm tight around Tyler’s shoulders. “Good to see you, too.”

He hasn’t really let loose around the Stars yet; he knows his reputation, it would be hard not to, and he knows how much of it is truth. He likes to go out, he likes to drink, he likes to have a good time. He’s 21, he’s rich, he’s good-looking, it would be a shame to waste all of that. But he also knows he’d let it affect his hockey, and he can’t be having that. But it’s still early in the season, they’re playing really well, he feels great, and they have a couple of days before the next game.

The group text goes out at 6PM, after Brandon got a chance to shower after his flight and running around the apartment with Marshall, and get in a quick nap. The Benns come down to say hey, and they head out to dinner as a foursome. It’s … nice, for lack of a better word. Really nice. Conversation is easy, even if Brandon is a little slick for those boys, and maybe even for Dallas. Tyler feels like his worlds are colliding, and it’s weird, but it’s working.

Jamie impresses the hell out of him. Jordie is easy-going, friendly with everyone, so Tyler figured he and Brandon would get along even if they don’t have a ton in common. Jamie, on the other hand, is quiet and shy. He’s uneasy in new situations, uncomfortable being the focus of a conversation. If he’s feeling that at dinner, he’s definitely not showing it. He laughs - his full-bodied, I don’t care if I look like a doofus, honker of a laugh - at Brandon’s tales of their earlier exploits in Boston, talks football stats until Jordie pretends to fall asleep in his mashed potatoes, and jumps into Jordie’s story about the first time they got drunk at a party back in Victoria, adding details that have Brandon crying with laughter. Tyler can’t stop smiling through the whole dinner.

Later, at the bar, Brandon gets Tyler to do tequila shots, which are always his downfall. On the third one, Brandon holds the lime for Tyler and makes him lick the salt off the webbing between Brandon’s finger and thumb. Tyler laughs but does it, and he can see the way some of the guys’ eyes narrow slightly before they seem to shrug it off. There’s nothing sexual about it, for either Tyler or Brandon, but Tyler can see how it would look to someone who doesn’t know them. He looks back over his shoulder for Jamie, who has taken the salt shaker from Brandon and is lifting his hand to his mouth to lick a stripe across it.

“Here,” Tyler says, and reaches out for the salt. Jamie goes still, and Tyler plucks the shaker from his fingers. He pulls the thin skin at the base of his thumb between his lips, gets it wet with his tongue. Jamie’s watching him closely, and Tyler can see the color come up on his cheeks even in the dim light of the bar. Brandon is at his back, chuckling.

Tyler pulls his hand away from his mouth and shakes salt over it while it’s still damp. He holds the hand out for Jamie, thumb and index finger spread in a vee that Tyler lets hover right under Jamie’s plush lower lip. For a second he thinks Jamie is going to refuse, back off, but then he gives a slow blink and opens his mouth.

The feeling of Jamie’s tongue swiping over the sensitive web of skin sparks something in Tyler’s gut. With Brandon it’s a goof, helping each other with the training wheels they’ve always said, laughing at themselves for needing the salt and the lime in the first place. With Jamie, it’s like the nerve endings in that tiny patch of skin are directly connected to Tyler’s dick.

Jamie nips him before he pulls away, lips shining and eyes glinting. He licks his lips and then parts them again, looking expectant. Tyler’s hand is still out there, just hanging, and Brandon clears his throat behind him. 

“He needs the lime, Ty.”

“Oh,” Tyler says, voice thick. “Oh yeah.” He shakes his head, laughs a weird short laugh, and grabs a wedge from the napkin on the bar. He holds it up, and Jamie sucks at it, eyes drilled into Tyler’s.

“Thanks,” he says, after he’s bolted down the tequila, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Tyler says, and then stands there dumbfounded when Jamie goes back to the table.

“Holy shit, dude,” Brandon says, and Tyler could not agree more.

“I need to get wasted. And then I need to dance.”

He does both. Brandon is there, a little bit of Boston in Dallas, and Jamie is there, doing something that Tyler supposes could be called dancing. Jordie is there, and Dills, and Cody, and all the rest of his new team. They get sweaty and super drunk, and Brandon ends up on top of a table, girls on one side, and Dallas Stars on the other. Tyler gazes up at them all with tequila zinging through his veins, and Jamie laughing in his ear.

“He fits right in,” Jamie says, and his breath is hot on Tyler’s neck. Tyler leans his shoulder back, presses it into Jamie’s chest, and slants a look back over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says, and smiles. “He does.”

← →

When you’re 25, you’ve just won your second Stanley Cup, and you’ve done it with your best friend who is also your captain and your partner, you get to feeling like you’re maybe going to explode from happiness.

Jamie kisses him in the locker room, when the champagne is starting to dry in their hair and on their skin, when the cameras are gone. It’s the most they’ve ever done in front of the team, and it catches Tyler off guard. Jamie is usually reserved around the guys, especially the ones who have only been around for a short period of time. But the euphoria of the win, of skating the Cup around home ice with thousands of fans cheering at him, must have caught up to him.

Someone wolf whistles - Kari, Tyler thinks, sitting in his corner with the soggy cowboy hat perched crookedly on his head - and Tyler grins against Jamie’s mouth.

“Forget where you are, Captain?” Tyler asks, winking showily as he leans back and away, his victory green Stanley Cup Champion tee sticking to his chest.

“Nope,” Jamie says, and thumbs at Tyler’s lower lip. “I’m not forgetting one second of this.”

The next morning Tyler wakes up with a mouthful of Jamie’s hair and what tastes like dead animal. It’s just his tongue, thank goodness, fuzzy from alcohol. His head pounds when he opens his eyes, and he squints against the weak sunlight daring to peek through the curtains of their bedroom.

He groans, long and with feeling, and takes a moment to reminisce about his first Cup win. He had drank for a week straight and never got so much as a twinge in his temple. Ah, his youth.

“Please stop breathing on me,” Jamie grumbles, tilting his head away from Tyler’s mouth. “Your breath smells like a sewer.”

“You’re not exactly fresh as a daisy yourself, bud,” Tyler says, but he shifts gingerly away from Jamie until he’s on the edge of the bed, one leg slowly sliding off the mattress. There’s a sock on that foot, but not the other. He’s wearing underwear, and his watch. Jamie seems to have a shirt on but nothing else. “How did we get home?”

Jamie lifts his head from his pillow, grunts, and flops back down. “Uber,” he mumbles. “The team pre-booked them. Not that I remember actually coming home.”

Tyler snorts, even though it kills his head. “So much for not forgetting a second of this.”

“Please shut up,” Jamie pleads, and Tyler laughs, trying not to shake too much, and gets slowly to his feet so he can let the dogs out and shower. And maybe start breakfast. They’ll need to load up on carbs and protein if they’re going to survive the customary Cup bender.

At the door, Tyler looks back at Jamie, curled up in a miserable ball with his head half-under his pillow. The night before they’d taken the Cup to no less than six bars around downtown Dallas, letting fans kiss it and drink from it. Tyler had sprayed Jamie with a $10,000 bottle of champagne. It was frivolous debauchery, following a grueling series of games that they’d clawed and scratched their way through, and Tyler is going to be feeling it for days. But even with the killer headache and rolling stomach, it feels even better than it had the first time.

Padding through the house with one sock on, getting the dogs fed and out into the backyard, starting up the coffee and cracking eggs into a bowl, Tyler takes stock. He’s bruises from head to foot, his wrists are sore, and he’s got a hangover from hell. But his house is quiet and cool, his dogs are chasing each other around in the early afternoon sunlight, and his boyfriend is sleeping off his own hangover in their bed. Jamie has his first Cup and Tyler helped him get it.

Smiling so hard hurts his head, but he can’t seem to stop.

← →

When you’re 29, for all intents and purposes settled down, and playing some of the best hockey of your life, you get to feeling like you can have it all.

He and Jamie have a house, have won Cups together. They have tattoos on the fourth fingers of their left hands. They’ve got future plans for kids and a hockey school. And they’ve got a big fucking party planned for Tyler’s 30th birthday.

They rent a house on the Cape, because Tyler misses partying on the beach. He’s more accustomed to the fancy crystal glasses Jamie mixes cocktails in than red Solo cups nowadays, but he wants to usher in a new decade of his life playing beer pong in his board shorts, dammit.

It’s not his exact birthday, because they had a game the day before and a day after, but it’s close enough. They’re only out there for 36 hours, and Tyler plans to make each minute count. He and Jamie fuck in the gigantic bed in the master bedroom as soon as they arrive, and Jamie still has stubble burn on his chin when the first guests start arriving. Everyone comes - teammates old and new, Tyler’s family, Jamie’s family. Jordie’s wife is pregnant and she still flies out, promising to shuttle people to other rented houses or hotels at the end of the night if they don’t want to crash. It’s madness, a mass of humanity that you can barely move through, a fire on the beach and flip cup on the deck, Tyler’s dad crushing a couple of the younger Stars at darts in the basement.

Tyler makes the rounds a few times before settling in for a game of beer pong with Blacker at his elbow, Freddy and Brandon across the table, Brownie and Derrek chirping them from the sidelines.

“Who are you even rooting for?” Tyler yells, after Brownie has trash talked both Freddy and Blacker in turns, and everyone laughs, and Tyler feels warm inside and out. He misses a shot, and then Freddy sinks one, and Tyler chugs down the tepid beer, sticking out his tongue in an exaggerated grimace.

Someone has appointed Jordie DJ, and for once he’s not ruining everything with cock rock and shitty country. He had to have gotten advice from Tyler’s sisters, or something, because the mix he’s playing now is amazing, and Tyler needs to dance right this minute.

“I need to dance,” he shouts over the bass line, and grabs a cup in each hand. “Bro,” he says, when Blacker just stares at him, gesturing at the last cup on the table. “We forfeit,” he calls across to Freddy and Brandon, and then slams his beers, dumping the cups on the table and grabbing Blacker by the elbow.

There are a few people in the space between the couches in the living room, dancing and laughing and trying not to bump into each other. Tyler drags Blacker right into the middle and grabs his shoulder, lifting his other arm to pump his fist in the air. His legs aren’t doing exactly what he’s trying to get them to do, so he’s mostly just attempting to stay on his feet, snickering into his own biceps, but he feels amazing.

“Having fun?” Jamie yells, appearing at his side, arm snaking around Tyler’s middle and making him feel steadier on his feet. Tyler bounces on his toes, nods his head up and down, pumps his fist.

“Hell yeah,” he shouts, right in Jamie’s face. He’s still holding Blacker’s shoulder, and he gives Blacker a shake. “You?”

“Hell yeah, Seggy! Best party!” Blacker yells back, and grins at him, turning to grin at Jamie too.

“Don’t kill yourself doing whatever this is,” Jamie says, leaning closer so he doesn’t have to shout. He waves his free hand up and down Tyler’s body and gives him a judgy look that cracks into a smile after a second. Tyler smirks.

“You love my moves,” he says, and tries to shimmy his hips. It’s more like half a shimmy and half a jerky-wiggle, but it makes Jamie’s smile stretch out until his cheeks crease into dimples.

“I do, sadly for me.” Jamie leans forward and presses his smile to Tyler’s, not even a kiss but nice all the same, and then backs away, eyebrows lifting. “Watch him,” he says to Blacker, and then he’s gone.

Tyler adjusts his grip on Blacker’s shoulder, catches Brownie’s eye and beckons with his other hand, and gets himself a circle of bros to bounce off so he can jump around a little when the tempo of the music picks up. Tomorrow he’ll be wrung out and half-dead, but for now he has his best boys, who’ve been with him for all the crazy ups and downs of the last decade, and the one before that too. He’s got a house full of people he loves, one of which he loves the most, and a few hours ahead of him before he passes out.

He steals Freddy’s beer and takes a long drink before handing it back. The song switches and everyone lights up around him, throwing their heads back to shout along.

**Author's Note:**

> If [this](http://youtu.be/0wI4Ckiss6s) ain't Tyler Seguin's theme song, though.
> 
> This is the first part of a series of hockey fics inspired by songs from One Direction's masterpiece _FOUR_ (the deluxe version, natch). If you follow me on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/popflies) you've already witnessed my breakdown about certain songs on that album and certain pairings, so you know what's coming. If you don't, just know that 18 is so Pat'n'Jonny it hurts.


End file.
